This poem is taken from Stand 226, 18(2) June - August 2020.

Alan Britt Three Poems

He scraped a knuckle while crashing
onto our copperhead postwar
                           linoleum floors.

He rinsed asbestos dust
                                      from his eyeballs
                with water hard as marble.

Then waltzed us
                        off to bed,
          our fingertips convinced
                                           that death
                           would consume us
               the moment
                                         let go.

Duende’s Daughter

Death is a skunk lurking around my
neighborhood & leaving scent marks
behind the aging maple, beside
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